Imperfect Contract (8 page)

12

Early Thursday morning, the alarm clock short-circuited my sleep.  I rolled out of bed.  I had no choice.  I had insisted on breakfast, knowing it meant meeting Ray at seven God forsaken o'clock.  So I dragged out of bed a little before six.  I wanted a cup of coffee on board in order to deal with the man.

First, I fed Sunshine and opened the doggy door, letting him into the yard.  He demanded and received the first bit of attention every morning.  Then I headed for the shower. 

As I stood under the hot stream of water—I have my showerhead set to deliver a solid stream rather than a diffuse mist—I reviewed the activities of the preceding day.  Vanessa, Connie, and I had been stuck on forced overtime until eleven.  Vanessa hadn't said anything significant for the rest of the day, but I could tell from her distant looks she was preoccupied.

I pulled myself back into the moment, climbed out of the shower, and toweled myself off.  Sunshine returned from his morning excursion, complete with wet paws and chin, and presented himself for a good morning-rub.  The fact I was stark naked didn't deter him from asserting his demands. 

I knelt next to him on the floor and rubbed his belly.  Then I kneaded around his ears.  He held his head one way and then the other to increase the force of the massage.  He's a real hedonist.

 The aroma of coffee drifted into the bedroom.  Unable to wait, I wrapped myself in my towel and went into the kitchen for a cup.  Then, as I sipped, I laid out a short-sleeved sweater and matching cardigan, guaranteeing I'd have something warm to combat the chilling air conditioning in Denny's and the real estate office.

As I sat in front of my vanity blow-drying my hair, I continued to rehash the previous day, preparing to relay it to Ray.  I wasn't sure what would be important, but he'd want to know about Amelia's attitudes and how she was handling Vanessa's real estate deal.

I gave my hair one last brushing.  It looked the way Ray liked it, soft and alive.  I applied a touch of eye shadow, some mascara, and a blush of pink to my cheeks.  I reached for the Chanel and sprayed it along my neckline and into my hint of cleavage.  Then, for good measure, I sent a short mist of cologne into my hair and fluffed it with a pick.  Done. 

Time to go.  I wanted to be the first to arrive.

I surveyed my appearance, grabbed my sweater and purse, and sent Sunshine to his crate with a treat.  He'd do anything for a treat.

I pulled up in front of Denny's ten minutes later.  Though it was not yet seven, Ray waited outside, standing next to an areca palm.  So much for being there first.  He wore a cream-colored dress shirt and dark tie with brown slacks.  I knew he'd left his jacket in the car.  He looked fine, real fine.

We ordered eggs, pancakes—the works.  Everything tasted good.  I'm fond of pancakes when I don't have to make them myself.  They’re a treat.  I never choose them in the hospital cafeteria.  There, they’re not a treat.

I felt like a traitor telling Ray about Vanessa's problems with Amelia and Barry Hutchinson and with Amelia's total lack of willingness to help.  Ray didn't act surprised.  I think he was convinced Amelia gunned down her husband. 

Of course, he didn't say Amelia had done the deed.  No sir.

"I think Amelia took out the contract on her husband, and I think her son had a hand in it.  Your story confirms that her motive was greed, pure and simple."

"Ray," I said, "I can't argue with you.  It seems that way to me, too."

"Nice of you to agree with me for a change.  Yes ma'am, it is."  His bass voice, with the barest hint of a southern drawl, rumbled from across the table. 

"Ray," I said, "now you're being the catty one."

"How so?"

"Forget it."

"No, let's not forget it.  I think it's time we talk about whatever it is that's bothering you."  There weren't any jerking movements along the edge of his goatee, so I knew he wasn't angry.

If I pissed him off, he wouldn't let me be involved in cases anymore, and I enjoyed it.  Or did I enjoy the opportunity to see Ray?  "Let's forget it.  I don't want to open old wounds this morning."

Ray was born and raised in Parkland, Virginia.  It sits at the base of the Blue Ridge Mountains, on the east side where the slope is gradual.  We took a trip there to meet his parents.  We were planning our wedding, and visiting his folks was the thing to do. 

For some reason, I don't remember why, we approached from the west and sped up the west side of the mountains, drove a short distance on the Blue Ridge Parkway, then descended on the east.  The road leading up the mountain was at least three times as steep as the one going down.  Trees close to the road obscured the scary hairpin turns and exciting drop-offs.  The old song
Thunder Road
ran though my head.  Of course, the way Ray drove the Viper didn't help.  He grew up on the roads and knew every turn.    

The smell of Ray's Nautica drifted across the table.  He didn't wear Nautica then—I don't think it existed—but he'd worn something as sensual. 

"Sophi, we need to clear the air."

I didn't say anything. 

He continued, "I don't know what it is about us lately.  We can't get along."

I sat straighter in the booth and leaned forward.  "What do you mean lately?  I don't hear from you for months on end.  First we meet, have a romance, decide to get married, then I get shot and everything is called off.  And never an explanation."

"That was eight years ago for God's sake.  Why are you bringing it up?"

"Because, my handsome former fiancée, it was never resolved.  Every few months, you walk back into my life and expect I'll greet you with hugs and kisses, and sometimes sex, too.  Makes me feel used and abused.  Now, don't get me wrong.  I'm not claiming you forced me into your bed, but it feels like it.  I like helping with the cases.  But where does that leave me?  Screwing you so I can play cops and robbers once in a while?"

It was his turn to sit there.  I studied his face, looking for the telltale sign of his cheeks tugging at the edges of his beard, but no, he still wasn't angry.  He reached his long arm across the table and took my hand.  I didn't pull away.  I thought maybe I'd hear something giving me closure to the emotional roller coaster I'd ridden for years.

"If you remember, before you were injured, we were having problems.  We'd decided to put our engagement on hold for a while, but we were still seeing each other."

"Of course, I remember."

"When you were in the hospital, I came to see you every day."  He paused.  "At first, I couldn't get over almost losing you, but then I met someone.  When you said you wanted to go home to recover, I decided to make a clean break.  You didn't ask.  I thought you had figured it out." 

"But you never asked for the ring back."

"Wasn't important at the time."

Knowing didn't bring closure.  It brought fresh pain.  He had a right to do whatever he pleased, but it still felt like deceit to me.

When I didn't say anything, Ray continued, "The woman and I quit seeing each other soon after you left town.  When you came back to town, you didn't call me.  The captain showed me the letter saying you were going to nursing school.  I thought you'd be back to the department."

"You could have contacted me.  It wasn't as though I kept my whereabouts a secret, and I went into
Patty's Pub
every weekend."

"I know.  I walked in a time or two, saw you there, and slipped out."

"Coward."

"Exactly."

He still held my hand.  He's one of those guys whose muscles seem to extend into his hands.  I guess it's because his muscles are part of his natural physique, not put there by lifting weights.  The strength of his hand made his shaking more obvious.

He loosened his grip and stared at my face until he caught my eyes.  "That's why I started using you on my cases.  I felt guilty over not sticking by you.  Then I found out you were a real asset on certain cases, people open up to you.  Now I call you for two reasons.  One, it's an excuse to see you.  Two, you're a big help."

"Where does that leave us?"  I noticed the only emotion he mentioned was guilt.  He took a sip of his cold coffee and didn't answer.  I remembered the days when we thought we were in love.

He said, "I don't know.  Working on this case, I guess."

My eyes stung.  "You have to go to work, and I have things to do before I see the realtor.  I'll give you a call if I find out anything."

"Call me either way."

"Fine."  I slid out of the booth and left without looking back.  My tears flowed.

13

Concerned about someone unveiling my clandestine investigation, I looked around.  The parking lot was empty except for a couple of late model, four-door sedans and two other vehicles.  I pulled into a diagonal parking space in front of Michael Wiley Realty. 

I glanced in the direction of Hutchinson Realty and confirmed Amelia's car was not there.  Vanessa was working overtime, so she wouldn't drive by and see my car either. 

As the cars whizzed by on the north-south corridor, I reviewed my plan to find out about contracting to purchase real estate and about the Hutchinsons.

When I walked into the realty office, Wiley stood near the door.  He didn't look like the typical friendly realtor.  His craggy nose formed a sharp slope to his high forehead and thinning brown hair.  A nasty scar extended from his right ear to the side of his mouth, following the angle of his jaw.  The skin on either side of the scar appeared permanently swollen. 

The scar looked like an incision, making me suspect recent cancer surgery.  I assumed many people guessed it was the result of a youthful knife fight.

Wiley's demeanor contrasted with his appearance.  He swung the door open and extended his hand, ushering me into the cold office with a warm welcome.  "Young lady, what can we do for you today?"

He wasn't much older than I, approaching forty-five—maybe.  "I have an appointment with Mr. Meyer."

"Ah, yes, I remember him commenting on a fishing expedition with a new client."

 "Fishing, that would be me.  I'm searching for a new house.  I need to see what's out there before I decide if I can afford to buy."  I looked around, hoping not to see Mr. Meyer.  I wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to interview Wiley before leaving with Meyer.  "Is he in yet?"

"No.  He called a few minutes ago.  He's on his way.  Can I offer you a cup of coffee?"  He was perhaps six feet with a slim build and a slight paunch.  He bent at the waist when he spoke, as if trying to get to my level.

"I'd like that.  Thanks."  I took a seat and stared at the world's-greatest-salesmen display, then saw a stack of paper on the ledge by the vacant receptionist's desk.  I took a roster of recent listings and returned to my chair.  One has to appear interested.

Wiley returned with my coffee.  "Can I get you started?  We like to collect some information on new clients before taking them out, routine pre-qualification stuff.  We try not to inconvenience our sellers with traffic from folks who won't qualify."

"Sounds like a plan to me."  The coffee was bitter.  I tried not to make a face.  The pot needed scrubbing.  Following him to his office—his was the only one with walls—I noticed only one occupied cubicle.  "Quiet day?"

"Usually is on Thursdays.  A couple agents are out with clients, but most of the sales force comes in after lunch.  We get busier later in the day."

I took a chair and set the coffee off to the side.  I planned to leave it there.  "I thought about doing business with the office on the other end of the mall.  I'm not much into huge boxes filled with cubbies."  I waved my arm at the maze.

"It's not as bad as it seems.  Besides, I think Hutchinson's Realty will be a part of our organization soon.  Barry, he's the real estate broker, was hurt in an accident, and I don't believe his wife will continue in the business."

"Oh, is that so?  I met her a few days ago, and she didn't mention going out of business."

"That doesn't surprise me.  She isn't excited about closing the office.  But she doesn't hold a real estate broker's license, and her husband won't be able to work again."

"That's sad.  What kind of accident?"

"Did I say accident?  I mean tragedy.  He sustained his injuries in a drive-by shooting.  He's lying in the hospital, even as we speak, close to death."  He fidgeted with his pens, picked up a form and laid it down, then looked at me.  "He and I were close friends—competitors yes, but still close friends.  A time or two, we discussed combining forces but decided we'd miss the competition.  Certain clients prefer a smaller office like his, while others prefer our bigger operation.  They think we have more listings."

"We'll isn't that true?"

"No, we use the same multiple listing service.  With sales, we show our own listings first.  That makes economic sense.  Someone listing with us gets more exposure from our salesmen.  Beyond that, it's a matter of comfort for the client. 

"When we show our properties, we tell the client we are transaction brokers only.  That means we provide a limited form of representation rather than representing them as a single agent and owing them our full loyalty.  This form explains it.  We encourage those clients to obtain a lawyer's services."  He laid a form in front of me.  After I'd finished reading it, he continued, "Can we get some information from you?"

"Sure, why not?  What is it you need to know?"

"Let's start with your current address." 

He asked questions, and I provided answers, trying to mirror Vanessa's economic condition.  He asked about income.  I lied, cutting my income by twenty-five percent.  He asked about available cash.  I lied, saying I could, maybe, scrape together a few thousand. 

"Tell me, do you think I can hope to get into anything decent?  I know I should have more money to work with, but my rent is high.  It's hard to save."

"It will be tough."

"I've heard sometimes agencies do some interesting things with contracts and prices."

"Some of the less reputable people will, yes.  They inflate the value of the house and credit the extra to a down payment, giving the appearance of higher equity and forcing down the mortgage rate.  That makes it easier for the buyer to qualify for an affordable mortgage."

"Is that legal?"

"No, definitely not.  In fact, it's conspiracy to defraud a federally funded institution.  In the old days, we did it on occasion.  But not anymore.  The laws are more stringent.  Sometimes buyers have to raise a larger down payment.  Then with the credit crunch brought on by the bank problems, it is even harder to qualify marginal clients."

"Sounds like padding the price is a way to make a sale that shouldn't be made," I observed. 

Wide-eyed, he stared at me. 

I knitted my brows, trying to look puzzled.  "I ask because my friend is working with Amelia Hutchinson to buy a home.  She's having problems with the contract."

"Oh, tell me."  He put his hands on his knees and leaned forward.

I explained about Barry Hutchinson calling Vanessa's offer a contract when the sellers hadn't signed, then described the details of Vanessa's home buying fiasco.  I elaborated on the distress to the buyer and added a few creative details for effect.

"That's not how we do business."  He made a note on the form and folded it.  "We refer to the mortgage broker after both parties sign the contract.  We review changes with both the buyer and the seller to be certain they understand.  Also, we never have open-ended time frames.  That's asking for trouble."

I thought Hutchinson had significant cash flow problems and pushed sales, or, maybe, he had been inept.  I poked deeper.  "Amelia pressed the sellers to sign and left my friend stuck."

He tilted his head.  "Now really?  Amelia?  I'm surprised."

His eyes darted to the doorway.

I glanced over my shoulder at Art Meyer.

Wiley said, "Come on in and join us.  I completed Miss Burgess' file.  She's ready to go."

All pre-qualified, I thought, masking my surprise with a cough.  First, he tells me I won't quality, and, now, I'm set to look at homes.  I stood to leave.